


A Room of Musical Tunes

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, College Student Dean, Dean is in his twenties, Endverse!Castiel, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Inspired by Music, M/M, Neighbors, Psychic Castiel, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Humor, Studying, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8646040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: He knocks three times once he reaches the door—which, surprisingly, doesn’t have smoke huffing and puffing, threatening to blow Dean’s courage—and immediately curses, albeit erratically, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. The extra warmth of his wool blanket is ditched for only a brown imitation leather jacket over a blue and white flannel and a Led Zeppelin United States of America 1977 short-sleeve and blue jeans. And yes, he did say only. The door peels back a few seconds after Dean’s potty mouth slips out, and flush him down the sewer and call him leftover tuna casserole, because he cannot deal with the image in front of him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, once again, otpprompts.tumblr.com, for your boundless creativity: 
> 
> Person A is listening to really loud, weird psychedelic music. Person B lives right below them, so one day they go to complain to person A but when they get to the door, oh no person A is hot and they somehow find themselves laying on the floor of person A’s apartment listening to this weird music, and it’s not that bad.
> 
> Thank you to one of my good friends, Jess, for properly introducing me to The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. "Bike" is now my latest favourite song (title inspired by).

 

“Goddamnit, not again,” Dean grumbles under his shaking breath, which comes out as a ghostly plume and disappears just as quick.

This is the third time this week. Not the busted heater in his lower-level studio (Metatron will get his turn), but the music blaring in the room upstairs. It wouldn’t surprise Dean to be greeted to smoke piling out the thin opening in his neighbor’s door like a haunted house running long past its scheduled season, along with the psychedelic sounds of yesteryear.

Not like he’s tried approaching the guy. Usually this isn’t a problem, since Dean takes his studies to the library, but his car is out of commission at the moment.

Tonight is no different. Well, except that it’s finals week.

Dean unearths a sigh buried in the catacombs of his chest, throws himself forward, and swings out of his desk chair. His other neighbors must be immune by now. That or they’re loner stoners like Jackoff. (Which also wouldn’t be surprising, it’s not that great of an area to raise anything except Cane.)

Dean ascends the stairs at a sluggish but heavy stride, his annoyance in tow. He knocks three times once he reaches the door—which, surprisingly, doesn’t have smoke huffing and puffing, threatening to blow Dean’s courage—and immediately curses, albeit erratically, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. The extra warmth of his wool blanket is ditched for only a brown imitation leather jacket over a blue and white flannel and a Led Zeppelin United States of America 1977 short-sleeve and blue jeans. And yes, he did say _only._

The door peels back a few seconds after Dean’s potty mouth slips out, and flush him down the sewer and call him leftover tuna casserole, because he _cannot_ deal with the image in front of him.

Jackoff is messy in every way, looking like he just… well, everything’s in a name. From his dirty grey jeans to his ash button-down popped almost completely open, exposing a fine expanse of tanned skin, to his stippled beard and lips stuffed tighter than stuffing in a Thanksgiving turkey, and the dark, matted-down hair hanging over his spacious forehead like three of the Grinch’s fingers, ready to snatch Dean’s spirit any moment because Dean’s dignity is a lost cause at this point.

Jackoff is gorgeous.

“Whoa,” he says, eyes blowing wide as he drinks Dean in, “strange.”

Jackoff’s eyes don’t look dilated, just normal and ridiculously blue. Dean’s always thought one of the purposes of psychedelic music is to get high. (Then again, _his_ eyes are probably blown wide from pure, unfiltered lust right now.) “W-what?”

“Did you come from upstairs?”

“I… uh, no, I’m in the studio below you. There is no upstairs.”

“But you came up a flight of stairs to get here.”

Dean narrows his eyes, flicking his head blankly from the stairs to his neighbor. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Jackoff’s lips turn up in a small smile. “Then that’s half the battle already.” He pauses, then lends out his hand. “Castiel, but you can call me Cas.”

Dean scoffs, putting out his own warily, “Dean.”

Cas’s smile grows wider as they clasp. “I sense righteousness from you, Dean.”

Unsure how to respond, Dean nervously laughs, “Maybe when someone cuts me off on the freeway.”

“No,” Cas chuckles, shaking his head. Between Cas’s unfaltering smile and hand on Dean’s, it’s oddly soothing. “You paint yourself with self-doubt, but you radiate good energy. Very good energy, very strong too.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows, unsure whether or not to feel invaded or impressed as Cas releases his hand.

“Come in, please, it’s freezing out here.”

Dean has no problem complying, especially when Cas’s bungalow is a good fifteen to twenty degrees warmer than his own. It’s also a lot more retro, with beaded curtains substituting doors, bright-colored furniture, and lamps on either side of the red couch held up by angelic male figurines. The only exception is the turntable next to the twenty-inch TV (if, in this day and age, you can even call it that—at that size, it’s more like a laptop), which is playing an album Dean actually loves and recognizes.

“Pink Floyd, _The Piper at the Gates of Dawn_ ,” he comments over the music, smirking. “Not bad.”

“[‘Lucifer Sam’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbIMx2MYNXk) is a personal favorite of mine,” Cas adds, to which Dean scoffs.

“Not bad, but [‘Bike’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmW17QvUhRM) is an underrated classic.”

Cas nods with a shy smile. “Not bad yourself, Dean.”

“Are you psychic?”

“I like to consider myself a prophet of free will.”

“Right,” Dean says warily, “so you know why I came up here.”

Cas blushes and moves to where Dean is to turn the volume down. “Guess it doesn’t take much intuition to know when you’re setting the neighbors off. The good-looking ones, of all of them.”

Dean turns a little red too, though he’ll say it’s from his body defrosting, and the stammer that follows, well, he’s still cold, despite shifting into a warmer environment, okay? “I, u-uhm, well, actually… I mean, that was before I recognized Pink Floyd.”

Cas smiles. “I still want to apologize. I can get a bit… carried away.”

“Oh no, believe me, I thought it was a _lot_ worse in here.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, tilting his head to the side, and _shit,_ Dean’s mouth runs on empty.

“I, uh… I thought, you know, before I heard Syd Barrett, you were, you know… banging a few gongs.”

Luckily, Cas eases back into a smile. “Ah. No, I’ve moved on. My palette doesn’t have a place for any of that stuff anymore. Although…”

“Although?”

“I still do ‘get it on’ occasionally,” Cas replies, winking as he lifts the needle on the turntable to flip the yellow-gold vinyl, and Jesus, Dean needs to step outside again, because now he’s _way_ too hot. “Okay, now [_this_ song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o2sA0vpA-4),” he says, placing the needle back down to start from the beginning, “is the real deal.”

**

Dean knows why Cas stopped drugs when they hit [track 9 on _The Doors._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjY3nfvkJ0Y)Even though Dean’s ass is still firmly on the floor, he feels like he’s on a carousal ride with the music at quarter speed.  But Jim Morrison’s sultry voice is like the mechanical horse, keeping him straddled where he is: thumbing through Cas’s vinyl leaning against the side of the bookshelf, having already gone through the vinyl _inside_ the shelf. He feels like he and Cas, though chatting quite frequently amongst themselves on the floor of Cas’s apartment over everything from vinyl to vindictive exes, are getting to know each other on a subliminal level with Cas’s music taste. _Magical Mystery Tour, Rumors, Pet Sounds, Caribou_ …

Yeapp, that’s a Jefferson Airplane album.

He’ll let that one slide.

He does just that until something slides out from the sleeve. Dean laughs.

“Your palette may not have a place for it,” Dean starts, startling Cas, who turns to look at Dean from being ridiculously immersed in the song, eyes sealed shut, head swaying back and forth, “but your shelf sure does.” He pauses for a smirk. “Kind of ironic, considering a Jefferson Airplane is the thing that _holds a joint.”_

Cas gestures to the bag with an apprehensive shrug. “I… I’m holding it for a friend?”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

Cas’s doesn’t bother fighting his mouth from the smile crossing his face. “No way. _You.”_

Dean smiles back as he pries apart the seal. “I’ll take your surprise as a compliment. Most people assume otherwise.”

“I guess I’m not most people.”

“Well, technically you are, since you assumed I would be judgmental.” Cas sighs, to which Dean laughs before he starts swimming his fingers in the bag. When he finds what he’s looking for, a roll of paper tucked near the bottom, he starts rolling. “But that’s okay; between you and me, most people aren’t pillars of society anyway.”

Cas chews on his lip before accepting the offered joint. “Most people suck.”

Dean full-on laughs now, “ _Now_ we’re talking.”

**

“Wait, you’re studying to be a mechanic?”

“Yeah.”

“You know you’ll be out of a job, right?”

“Nah, how do you figure?”

“If the _Fifth Element_ is right, by year 2263, cars will be flying.”

“Isn’t that, like, twenty years in the future though?”

Cas’s mouth parts, the hit he takes blowing out his mouth like smoke from an exhaust pipe. “Shit, that’s right.”

“What about you?” Dean asks in-between his next intake, stretching his back further on the floor before passing the significantly shorter joint back to Cas, “Does clairvoyance pay the bills?”

Cas shakes his head, but doesn’t verbally answer until after the next hit, “I also dogsit on the weekends.”

Dean brings himself to one slow, comprehensive nod. “Sounds rough.”

“Oh definitely.”

They both burst into giggles.

“Okay, but for real,” Dean says, “people pay a lot for their future?”

“Twenty an hour is my going rate. Thirty or more if I have to travel outside my home.”

“ _Seriously?”_

“Oh yeah,” Cas reassures, passing back the joint. “People are really serious about it. Take you, for example.”

Dean’s face scrunches like a lemon being freshly squeezed into a pitcher—or like he’s the person drinking _from_ the glass—before he cracks a mischievous grin that causes the smoke to spill from his lips. Serious and Dean in the same sentence, what a hoot.

He turns over so he’s propped on his side, facing Cas. “What about me?”

Cas keeps facing the ceiling, hands over his stomach. “You’re investing in your future going to college, right?”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“You don’t sound so convinced.”

“Yeah, I just… I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could do more than sit around studying.”

Cas shrugs. “Well, now you’re sitting around smoking a joint.”

“My parents must be so proud,” Dean remarks with a small laugh, taking a long hit. There’s a brief silence, then Dean shifts a little. “Hey, um… what if I wanted to know now what the future brings. You know, aside from the white picket fence and the kids running around in the yard. Something more… immediate.”

Cas cranes his head before turning on his side too. “Sure. What is it you want to know?”

The background music has been off for quite some time, but everything suddenly feels quiet. Too quiet for what Dean’s about to approach Cas with. “I, um… I wanted to know… the chances of you letting me kiss you.”

Cas’s lips part, and instantly drop to Dean’s. “O-oh. Well, I think… this a better question for an eight ball.”

“You… do you have an eight ball?”

“I do now.”

“Okay,” Dean says in a voice barely above a whisper, “what does the eight ball say?”

Cas leans in a little closer, and Dean can smell his musk, aftershave with a dash of honey. “‘Outlook good’.”

And that’s what does it. Dean’s not sure who dives in first after he sets the joint down, but one thing’s for certain is it doesn’t let up soon. Cas’s lips are soft and warm, his tongue tangy, most likely from the weed, and his toned body, the way it’s sliding closer every time Cas wraps his mouth around Dean’s. It’s tentative, lazy, and just—

“Perfect,” Cas mumbles against Dean’s lips, which glisten from spit. Cas’s does too, so Dean takes the initiative to swing back in and swipe his tongue across. Of course, this defeats the purpose of drying his lips, but Dean would hate for his name to die on Cas’s lips so soon.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees breathlessly before adding, “Good thing my future isn’t set in stone yet.”

“No, but we _are_ stoned.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean laughs from somewhere in his gut, “You know what we have to do know, don’t you?”

Cas looks absolutely confounded. “What?”

“Watch _Wizard of Oz_ and pop in _Dark Side of the Moon.”_

“Oh, right,” Cas says, biting his lip.

“Or we could make out some more,” Dean offers.

Cas nods, lips breaking into a gummy smile. “I like that option better.”

Yeah, Dean has a feeling he isn’t going cold again anytime soon.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If ya'll celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving! Either way, I'm grateful for all you lovely readers out there. <3


End file.
